Dale Brown - Dale Brown's Dreamland 04 - Piranha(and Jim DeFelice)(2003) (7 page)

 
          
“Ready
for engine five,” she told her team, leveling off for the next test sequence.

 
          
“Good.
Temp in four slightly high.”

 
          
“Acknowledged.”
She took q quick glance at the screen, making sure the temp was still in the
green—it was by

 
          
about
five degrees—then told the computer to light the rocket motor.

 
          
“Looking
good,” she said as the speed built quickly.

 
          
“Aye,
Captain,”
Richera
said, giving his best impression of
Scotty, the engineering officer on the Starship Enterprise, “the
dilithium
crystals are shining bright.”

 
          
“
Har-har
,” said Breanna, whose leg began acting up again.

 
          
They
touched Mach 5, but then began to slow inexplicably.

 
          
“Problem?”
asked
Fichera
.

 
          
“Not
sure,” said Breanna. The thrust on all three engines was steady, yet according
to the instruments she was slowing.

 
          
Now
if she’d been in the plane, she would have known exactly what the problem was.
She’d felt it.

 
          
Really?
Could you feel the difference at eighty-some-thousand feet and four or five
times the speed of sound, with things rushing by? Or would you have to rely on
the instruments anyway? How far would you be removed from the actual sensation
of flight, lying in a specially canted seat wrapped in a special high-G suit?

 
          
Breanna
pushed forward. Unencumbered by restraints or even a simple seat belt, she put
her face nearly on the large glass panel as she had the computer run her
through the vital signs on all the power plants. The speed had leveled off at
Mach 4.3. They had reached the end of test sequence.

 
          
“Computer,
cut engine five,” she said, referring to the hydro.

 
          
“Cut
engine five.”

 
          
“I
feel like I should be pushing buttons at least,” added Bree.

 
          
“Repeat
command,” said the computer.

 
          
“I
thought it wasn’t suppose to try to interpret anything without the word
‘computer’ in front of it,” Bree backed at
Fichera
.

 
          
“The
computer expects you to either follow the original flight plan called for, or
prepare a new course. Since you’re doing neither, it is confused.”

 
          
The
snotty voice belonged to Ray Rubeo, Dreamland’s head scientist.

 
          
“Hey,
Ray,” she retorted, “I didn’t realize you were sitting in.”

 
          
“I
wasn’t,” said Rubeo.

 
          
“We
can adjust that if it’s annoying,” said
Fichera
. “Can
we proceed with the rest of the tests?”

 
          
“Roger
that,” said Breanna, belatedly nosing the plane onto the planned course for a
second battery of telemetry downloads.

 
          
They
worked through the rest of the morning’s agenda without incident. Running ahead
of schedule, Breanna suggested a few touch-and-go’s to practice landing
technique.

 
          
“If
that’s okay with you, Ray,” she added.

 
          
“Dr.
Rubeo has left,” said
Fichera
.

 
          
“Yeah,
I thought you guys sounded more relaxed.”

 
          
“You
shouldn’t have called him Ray,” said
Fichera
. “He
looked like he swallowed a lemon.”

 
          
“Oh,
if I really wanted to tick him off
I’d’ve
called him
Doctor Ray,” said Breanna.

 
          
There
was no arguing Rubeo was a genius, though his social skills needed considerable
work. He was especially prickly concerning the B-5 project, not only because he
had personally done so much of the work on the computers, but because it had
been conceived as an entirely computer-flown aircraft.
Rubeo’s
contention that its tests be controlled by scientists using simple verbal
commands had been overruled by Colonel Bastian.

 
          
“Standby,
Dreamland B-5,” said the airfield flight controller as Bree lined up for her
first approach. “We have a VIP arrival via Runway One.”

 
          
Ordinarily,
non-Dreamland aircraft, even those belonging to VIPs, did not use Dreamland’s
runways; they came into Edwards and their passengers were ferried via a special
helicopter. Breanna selected her video feed to watch as the aircraft, an
unmarked 757, came in through restricted airspace. It banked over
Taj
—the low-slung administrative building, most of which
was buried several stories below ground—and the rest of the main area of the
base, as if to give its passengers a good view of Dreamland. Even though it had
permission to land, two Razor antiaircraft lasers turned their directors on the
Boeing, while an older Hawk missile battery leveled its missiles for delivery.
If the plane deviated even a few yards from its permitted flight plan, it would
be incinerated and then blown up for good measures.

 
          
“Whose
jalopy?” asked McCourt from the chase plane.

 
          
“Got
me,” said Bree, taking a circuit before starting her touch-and-go’s.

 
          
Wrestling
her foot cramp into submission was more difficult than the practice landings.
After three go-
arounds
, she was ready for the real
thing.

 
          
“You’re
going to have to hold off your landing,” said the controller again. “VIP jet
taking off from Runway One in thirty seconds.”

 
          
“Must’ve
tasted the food,” quipped McCourt.

 
          
Dreamland “
Taj
”
building

 
          
Colonel
Bastian put his signature on the last paper in his chief master sergeant’s hand,
rolling out the last letters of his name with a noticeable flourish as the
elevator stopped at the ground level.

 
          
“Admiral
will be wanting lunch,” said Terrence “Ax” Gibbs. “Should I call over the
Starlight Room?”

 
          
“Rustle
up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” said Dog as the doors opened.

 
          
“More
flies are trapped with honey than vinegar. Goes triple with four-boat
admirals.”

 
          
“Four-boat?”

 
          
“Stars,
braids, whatever the sailors call those things on his shoulders that make him
think he’s important.”

 
          
Ax
followed Dog into the lobby of the
Taj
. A member if
Danny Freah’s security team stood by the door—Technical Sergeant
Perse
Talcom, better known as Powder, waiting to drive the
colonel over to Hangar D, where the Piranha system was headquartered.

 
          
“We’ll
see about lunch,” Dog told Ax. “Anything else?”

 
          
“No,
sir. I hear the salmon’s especially good down in the Red Room.”

 
          
“What
salmon?”

 
          
“Flown
in yesterday,” said Ax. “Allen’s favorite. I’ll make sure they put some aside.”

 
          
There
was no way—absolutely no way—the fish had been special-ordered for Admiral
Allen, since his arrival hadn’t been expected.

 
          
Then
again …

 
          
“Hangar
D,” Dog told Powder, walking over to the black SUV near the entrance.

 
          
“Yes,
sir,” Powder slammed the Jimmy into gear and left considerable rubber on the
pavement.

 
          
“I’d
like to get there in one piece,” Dog said, grabbing at the door to keep his
balance.

 
          
“Good
one, sir.” Powder nearly tipped the truck over as he veered onto the access
ramp that led to the hangar area. He zipped past a Hummer and a fuel truck,
then
beelined
for the hangar area. The security
detail posted in front of Hangar D snapped to attention as they approached—they
took up safer positions behind a set of obstructions.

 
          
Powder
whipped the Jimmy around in a tight three-pointer near the head of the detail,
rolling his window down as he spun to a stop.

 
          
“Hey,
Nursy
, got the Big Guy aboard. Looking for the
admiral.”

 
          
Sergeant
Lee “Nurse” Liu, another Whiplash team member, blinked several times, then
saluted Dog.

 
          
“Carry
on,” managed Dog as he got out of the vehicle and went into the building. The
upper floor housed two heavily modified C-17 transports designated as MC-17/Ws,
intended as prototypes for a new hostile-area infiltrate/
exfiltrate
aircraft, roughly along the lines of the venerable and battle-proven MC-130H
Combat Talon II. One of the MC-17’s had already seen action during Whiplash’s
last deployment. The
technies
were now working on a
number of improvements, including an as-yet-untested version of the Fulton
Surface-to-Air Recovery (STAR) system. Dog headed to the ramp leading to the
first level down. Wide enough for a tractor-trailer, the cement ramp led to a
secure elevator, which opened only after scanning his retinas. Once you were
inside, the elevator could be operated only by voice, and then only if the
computer decided the vocal pattern matched its records.

 
          
“Fourth,”
said Dog as the doors snapped closed. He folded his arms and waited.

 
          
And
waited.

 
          
“Fourth,”
he repeated clearly.

 
          
Still
nothing.

 
          
“God
damn it—”

 
          
Either
finally recognizing the voice or the threat, the elevator snapped into action.
Dog stepped off impatiently at his destination, and was immediately greeted by
a familiar if not exactly affectionate hiss.

 
          
“Colonel,
why is the admiral here and why weren’t we notified he was coming?” The thin
lips of the senior scientist at Dreamland, Ray Rubeo, pursed into a funnel.
“These scientists aren’t military people. They get nervous. It’s like dealing
with a hotel full of prima donnas. There’ll be a run on Prozac tomorrow. We’ll
be three weeks getting back on schedule. And Piranha is hardly the most
important project here. Frankly, if it were up to me, it would be turned back
to Naval Weapons, which is not only competent but is used to dealing with
oversized Pentagon egos.”

 
          
“I
wasn’t told either,” said Dog, continuing toward the project area. “And I
believe Admiral Allen’s headquarters are in Hawaii.”

 
          
Dog
passed into the main project development room, an open lab area dominated by
low-slung workbenches and enough computer and electronic gear to outfit fifty
Radio Shacks. Lieutenant Commander Delaford, the project specialist, was
holding forth for the admiral and a small group of aides near the center of the
room. His laser pointer danced over a Piranha chassis, highlighting the
propulsion sections. This wasn’t a mockup—it was a live, though
unfueled
, unit. Delaford was talking about one of his
favorite topics—the applicability of the unit’s hydrogen propulsion system to
civilian applications such as cars. It was a noncontroversial selling point
sure to win a few votes in Congress, though the admiral’s overly furled brow
showed he wasn’t particularly impressed.